


Not Like This

by veryloyalveryquickly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 16:59:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veryloyalveryquickly/pseuds/veryloyalveryquickly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'He just never imagined that he would die like this; alone and bleeding in a dark alley.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Like This

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, I'd buy my very own pocket Benedict.
> 
> Author's note: I want to keep this as a one-shot on here, though it does have a second chapter on my profile at fanfiction.net.

**_ Not Like This _ **

It was not the first time John had considered his own mortality. After all, during his time in Afghanistan, he had come to regard death as omnipresent; it was everywhere he looked. And when that bullet had entered his shoulder, well, he had been sure that he would die. Die out there, in the sand and the heat, and in such agony that John began to wish that death would hurry up and claim him so the pain would finally stop. But he did not. He lived, the ugly scar on his shoulder a constant reminder of how close he had been to joining the ranks of the many soldiers who had died in action. He had returned to London, determined to live a safe, normal life. And then he met Sherlock Holmes, and all hope of ever living an ordinary life were thrown out the window. But John loved every second of it; he loved the feeling of exhilaration after a particularly exciting chase, the rush of pride he felt whenever they solved a case. He especially loved it when he did something that made Sherlock smile. He loved to see that smile, and he noticed Sherlock smiled a lot more now than he did when they had first met. This thought alone made John extremely happy. For John loved Sherlock; it was plain to those who had seen the two together that John truly cared for his cold, aloof companion. It was a strange kind of love- not a romantic love, but stronger than John had ever felt, even towards members of his own family. 221b was his home, and he felt more content than he had done in years.

But John was naive to think he could ever escape his old friend. Living with Sherlock, death was a constant possibility. Even after he had been shot, John loved the adrenaline rush of being in danger provided, craved it almost. He had known from his first day of meeting Sherlock, after he had shot the cabbie, that there was always the chance that one day, he would leave 221b Baker Street with Sherlock and not return. Yet, for some reason, John was okay with this. To die whilst on a case... well, that wouldn't be the worst way to die. He just never imagined that he would die like this; alone and bleeding in a dark alley. He sighed and closed his eyes, remembering how a simple trip to the supermarket had ended with a stab wound to the stomach.

_Where are you? What time are you coming home? -SH_

_Way back from supermarket. Bought milk, bread etc. Be home in 30 mins._

On reflection, his first mistake had been to show off his phone. How many times had he told Sherlock to not use his phone in the street at night, as it might 'cause a bit of trouble. Can never be too careful these days Sherlock, and you know there have been a few muggings in the area recently.' If only John had followed his own advice. It was late, and the streets were empty when John received the text from Sherlock. He pulled his phone from his pocket, smiling slightly as he read the message. If he didn't know better, he could have sworn the detective sounded slightly panicky. Then again, he was usually home by seven o'clock, and it was now half nine. As he typed the response, he wondered vaguely how he had managed to spend a whole hour in the supermarket and yet leave with only a pint of milk, some new teabags and a packet of custard creams (Sherlock's favourites). He didn't notice the two hooded teenagers eyeing the mobile in his hand. It was an expensive model, could probably still fetch a bit of money on the black market despite the scratches and the engraving. With a nudge and a few whispered words, the two of them began to follow the man, though not closely enough to arouse his suspicions. They did not know that John was an army man, who had spent many years honing and refining his senses.

After a few moments, John could sense that he was being followed, he could hear their footsteps and feel their eyes on him. It was a familiar feeling, but for once John had a feeling these were not Mycroft's men. They meant business. So John turned down the nearest alley, and he heard the footsteps quicken. He dropped the bag and turned to face his followers, expecting to see a couple of criminals sending him a friendly warning to 'Keep your nose outta our business, you and your detective friend!', or something along those lines. After maybe five or six of those instances, John knew exactly how to handle the situation; he was after all, a soldier who was trained in the art of hand-to-hand combat. He did not however, expect to see two teenage boys in front of him; definitely not Mycroft's men, then.

The taller boy leered at John. "You gonna give us that nice shiny phone, Mister? Or are me an' my pal 'ere gonna 'ave to take it from ya?"

"Leave now, or I will have no choice but to hurt you." John spoke coldly, his eyes as cold and hard as steel.

The taller boy cackled and elbowed his friend. "You hear that? This ol' man thinks he can threaten us!" The laughter died on his lips and when he spoke his voice was filled with malice. "I guess we'll 'ave to teach 'im a lesson then." The shorter boy nodded vigorously in agreement.

John prepared to fight. He had beaten trained assassins before, men twice his own size. He could easily take these teenagers down a peg or two. He felt his muscles tensing and the anger within him rising. The taller boy was obviously the bigger threat; the other boy was just his lackey, no real danger to John. Suddenly the taller boy lashed out at John, missing his face by mere inches. John reflexively took a step backwards before regaining his composure, and then launched himself towards the boy. Maybe he was too blinded by white-hot rage, or maybe he was too focused on remembering his military training; either way, he didn't see the knife until it was too late, and in a flash of silver it was plunged into his body.

Surprisingly, John felt no pain as he watched the blade slide into him in slow motion. When he had been shot, the pain had hit him almost immediately, like a huge tidal wave, and he had passed out. This time, however, he felt nothing. And for an instant, he thought he must already be dead. Then, the knife was pulled out and blood gushed from the gaping hole in his side. Pain suddenly seared through his body and he doubled over, clutching desperately at the wound in an attempt to stem the river of crimson that ran from it. He closed his eyes and crumpled to the floor as the strength drained away from him. Already, a small puddle of red was forming around him. The wound may not have been wide, but it was deep, and he was losing blood quickly. He could taste it now, metallic and sour on his lips and he vomited once, and then again until his stomach was empty. He was dimly aware that the teenagers had fled hurriedly, leaving John to bleed. He allowed himself a moment of triumph when he remembered that he still had his phone. Even at the cost of his own life, he had not allowed the muggers to get what they wanted. He smiled slightly through the pain before something caught his attention. The knife lay, forgotten by the teenagers in their flight. It was covered in blood, but more importantly, fingerprints. John hoped that when they found him, Sherlock would be able to trace his killers.

 _Sherlock_. John's eyes snapped open. He still had his phone; he just needed to call Sherlock. To hear that deep, familiar voice in his last moments. One hand still pressed to the wound, John pulled out his phone with shaking fingers, smearing the screen with his blood. His vision was becoming blurred and he had to focus hard to find Sherlock's name. When he found it, he let out a small sigh of relief and pressed the little green button. He didn't have to wait long before the he heard the irate voice of the detective. That wonderful, rich voice. John would miss it.

"John? Where are you? You said you would be home by now-"

"Sherl... ock." John's voice was slurred and heavy with pain. For a few seconds, John could only hear the sound of Sherlock's quickening breath. And then-

"Where are you?" His voice was full of concern. This pleased John for some reason, and the shadow of a smile flickered across his face.

"Alley... way back... from... supermarket." Every word required great effort, every syllable laced with the strain of talking. John was still losing blood at an alarming rate, and soon he would be beyond hope. Sherlock was speaking now, but John could not wrap his brain around the words. Instead, he pressed the phone to his lips. "Goodbye Sherlock." he whispered gently, before pressing the red button. A tear ran down his bloodstained cheek. _Goodbye, Sherlock._

He was not sure how long he lay there, drifting in and out of consciousness. The pain had faded into a dull ache, which could only mean bad news. His body was shutting down. He tried to think about his life, all the things he had accomplished, but the images were distorted and bleary, and the moment he thought he had one it trickled away like water in his hands.  _Maybe this is how it's meant to end,_  John thought sadly. _Maybe I wasn't meant to die a hero._  The blackness was spreading now, obscuring his thoughts, and he welcomed it.  _At least I got to hear him one last time,_  he thought before the darkness swallowed him.

But suddenly something was pressing down hard in his side and a warm hand was at his neck, searching for a pulse. He could hear Sherlock's voice, telling him to hold on. And that is all it took for John to pull away from the darkness and open his eyes slowly. The detective was there, holding him, one long arm cradling his body whilst the other continued to put pressure on the bleeding wound. John knew it can only have been minutes since he called the detective, so how did Sherlock manage find him so fast? Then Sherlock looked down into John's eyes, and John saw something he had never seen before. He saw fear shining in the detective's eyes. In the many months John had known the man, Sherlock had never let himself be seen so open and vunerable. John had always known that Sherlock, despite his claims, was no sociopath.

Sherlock knew it as well, he knew that no matter how hard he tried, he would always have these emotions, just like every other human being. Now John, his collegue, his flatmate, his friend, was dying in his arms, and he could not hide his feelings any longer. So he held John closer to his body, hoping and praying that the ambulance would not arrive too late to save his friend.

And that's when he heard John whisper, "Thank you Sherlock." Those three words were all it took for Sherlock to let his walls finally come crashing down and a single tear rolled silently down his cheek. The ambulance did arrive soon after, along with DI Lestrade, and John was taken from Sherlock and placed on a stretcher. He was unconcious by that point, and Sherlock was all too aware that he there was a high chance he would not wake up. He watched silently as John was loaded into the back of the ambulance and then, in a a flash of red and blue, he was gone. It was then he noticed the orange shock blanket draped across his shoulders, and for once he did not fight it. And when Lestrade wrapped an arm around the shaking detective and guided him towards the police car, Sherlock let himself be led. Tomorrow, he would go to the hospital, but for now, he would eat and bathe and sleep, just like John would want him to. He would wait.

The surgery went fine, and John would live with only a long scar and the memories of his ordeal. Two days later, he opened his eyes, and Sherlock was there by his side.


End file.
